Forgetting 221B
by prettyedsilence
Summary: Spoilers for Reichenbach. John comes home one evening to find Sherlock standing in the flat. But it isn't exactly a joyous reunion. In fact, Sherlock won't speak to him, and kicks him out. John knows he needs to let go, but he isn't quite sure how.


**A/N: Clearly I have an issue with obsessing over John's feelings post-Reichenbach: this is my second one I've posted here (After The Fall being the first) and I have a third that I almost finished while editing this one. Hope you enjoy, there's another chapter coming soon so please let me know if you like it!**

It's been three months, three days, 18 hours and 24 minutes since Sherlock fell from the roof when John walks into his flat and sees Sherlock standing in the middle of the room.

John's not sure why, exactly, he has kept the time so precisely. Partially it feels like a tribute to his analytical, data-obsessed friend. Partially it's because he can't help it. Every hour on his own feels like days, and he's developed a tic of looking at his watch to ensure that time really is passing. That it didn't stop when Sherlock's heart did.

So when John walks into his flat and sees Sherlock standing in the middle of a crowd of police officers lugging boxes and furniture around, his brain freezes.

"Sher... Sherlock?" he whispers. Nobody turns to look at him. He wonders if he's finally snapped. But he's been doing so well. Steady job, no drink, even dating again when he can remember to. This can't be in his head.

"Sherlock? SHERLOCK!" Police officer's heads are turning now, but Sherlock doesn't look at him. John's feet are suddenly able to move again and he is plowing through the crowd, shoving away anyone who happens to be in his path. It's rude and he hears a few pained noises, but he doesn't care. He can't see anything but Sherlock. He isn't sure why Sherlock isn't looking over, isn't running to him, or at least walking.

Then he is standing there, in the eye of the storm, looking up at Sherlock. And it is him, there's no question. Nobody else is that pale; nobody else has that exact coat - how did he get the bloodstains off?; nobody else's eyes are that particular cold shade of gray.

Eyes that won't look at him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John wants to reach out and grab him, make sure he's real, but he's scared now. He doesn't understand why Sherlock isn't responding. "Am I..." He looks around at everyone. "You all do see this, right? Why isn't he talking? Is something wrong with him?" Stupid question, of course something was wrong with him. How could Sherlock be here, have come back for him, and not talk to him?

"Yessir, that's Sherlock Holmes," a bright-faced young officer says. He looks oddly upset. Everyone else hurries around without looking up. John catches a glance of something going past and his mouth falls open.

"Is that my stuff?" he demands. "Oy, put it down!"

"Sorry sir, can't." The boy is nervous now. "Orders from the Inspector."

"Oh really? Is that - is that so?" John's phone is out of his pocket and the number's dialed in two seconds. He hears it ring, and then he hears an answering ring. Lestrade is in the flat, three yards away.

"Oh for Crissake - Lestrade, are you serious?" John bellows. He doesn't look at Sherlock's face, but he keeps his eyes trained on his friend's hand, his coat, his shoes. If Sherlock leaves, John will know.

Lestrade walks over, rubbing at his nose. He flicks his eyes up and down and he shuffles slightly when he walks. John doesn't need to ask Sherlock to know that Lestrade feels guilty.

"What the blazing hell is going on here?" he demands, gesturing around the flat. "Why are all these people here? What are they doing with my stuff? And why in God's name won't Sherlock talk?"

"He, er..." Lestrade stares at the floor. "He said he doesn't want to talk to you. Demanded we move your stuff out." He looks up again, and his eyes are pleading. "There's a new flat, already paid up six months. Rent is cheaper and it's a single. Near your work."

John sucks in a breath of air and then chokes on it.

"What? What? I don't understand," he says when he's done coughing. He whirls around to look at Sherlock. "Are you serious? What the hell are you playing at?" But Sherlock doesn't respond, doesn't so much as twitch.

Lestrade shrugs. His eyes are sympathetic.

"Dunno, I'm sorry. Look, he's clearly had a rough few months. Just... give him some time." The words trail off, and John knows without doubt that Lestrade believes Sherlock is done with him. That Sherlock is bored with John. That somehow, the last nine months have just been an experiment.

John looks at Sherlock reflexively, hoping for some kind of explanation. But Sherlock is staring at the wall. He is so still that he might be a statue. Maybe he is.

John feels the sudden, urgent need to make sure Sherlock is safe, whole, alive. He needs to touch his cold skin and make sure this is real. He has to check him over and see just how bad his injuries are.

He knows that everyone in the room is quietly waiting for him to explode. But they don't understand. He is angry, yes. Angry and confused and hurt and bitter and desperate. And yet, this is the happiest he's ever been in his entire life, because Sherlock has given him his miracle. And even if it is the last one John ever gets, he will never stop being grateful.

John steps closer to Sherlock, invading his personal space. He reaches out his hand and it hovers over the other man's wrist. "Just let me make sure you're okay."

There's a long pause, and John can feel everyone in the room holding their breath. And then suddenly, impossibly, Sherlock gives a jerky nod before turning his head as far as it will go and staring off in the other direction.

John breathes a sign of relief and takes Sherlock's wrist, quickly and deftly checking the pulse. A little fast, but normal. He reaches up on tiptoe to check Sherlock's heart, just with his ear, no time for a stethoscope because Sherlock might change his mind. It sounds normal, but again, fast. Stress.

His hands move over sensitive areas - neck, back, stomach - checking for any obvious signs of sensitivity. Or, to be honest, for any gaping holes. He finds none. Both of Sherlock's knees are intact and steady.

Finally, John reaches up, firmly takes Sherlock's chin and pulls it down so he can stare into those cold eyes. The eyes signal so many things - concussion, drugging, disease. Sherlock resists for a moment before staring John in the eyes.

For a moment, John can't breathe. He saw his friend fall, saw him dead on the sidewalk. And now here he is, standing in their flat, and even though no emotion is registering on his face, John knows that Sherlock is letting him do this because he knows that John needs it. True, he's refusing to acknowledge John and kicking him out. Even so, John has to clamp his jaw and set his teeth to stop himself from crying.

Sherlock's pupils are dilated, but it's consistent with the stress that John has read in other parts of his body. They aren't blown out by drugs, or weaving from a head injury. They're clear and sharp; no disease.

John isn't sure how long he stands there staring into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock is staring back, so it isn't just him. It takes awhile, but John finally realizes that he is trying to read Sherlock's expression, and Sherlock is trying to be unreadable. John wonders fleetingly how many things Sherlock has read in his face in that time.

"Are you alright?" John asks softly, almost pleading. He knows that he's pushing his luck, but he has to ask.

Sherlock gives a short, choppy nod, tearing his chin out of John's fingers in the process. Actually, that may have been the point. Without a backward glance he strides off to the other end of the flat, leaving John standing there on his own.

Lestrade sidles up without John really noticing. "Is he okay?" the Inspector asks anxiously.

John frowns. "Come on, Lestrade, I know you already had him..." Lestrade is shaking his head and the realization dawns on him. "He refused to be looked at."

"Course. So, is he alright?"

"Seems so, as far as I can tell with such a haphazard examination. No big wounds, stats normal, eyes look fine. The only thing I can really tell is that he's stressed."

Lestrade shrugs. That's not important to him. Reasonable, given that Lestrade has no idea what goes on in Sherlock's mind at the best of times, and his mental state is none of the Inspector's business. Not exactly John's business, either. But it feels like it is.

However, when two months pass by without him seeing Sherlock again, John is forced to admit that it might be time to let go. He has called, texted, and knocked on Sherlock's door until he started to feel like a stalker and finally stopped. He's also stopped dropping in for visits at the police station, because Lestrade is far too honest and the first thing he always says is, "He hasn't changed his mind." Besides which, John's technically banned for punching Anderson that time he started taunting John about driving him to the pound to find a new master.

So John tries to forget. He knows that Sherlock's alive and well, and that's what really matters. And if he got bored with John, well, that's only natural. Sherlock could outsmart anyone and anything, and John didn't even approach being a challenge. He wonders idly if Sherlock plans on inviting Irene Adler to share. 221B won't be nearly luxurious enough for her taste.

It's 11:00 in the morning and he's at work when his mobile buzzes with a text. The toddler he's looking at feels his hands tense and starts screaming. John forces himself to wait until he's done checking her over to look at the phone. It won't be Sherlock. It won't be interesting.

For the millionth time, John breathes out and checks his messages.

874 GRANGE BEND. DANGER COME NOW SH.

John doesn't even bother to inform the main desk before grabbing his coat and running out the door.


End file.
